Coping
by kates1304
Summary: When Jac & Jonny face tragedy, will it tear them apart? Multi shot.


**A/N A short and thus far not particularly happy fic, sort of inspired by THE SPOILER about Jac & Jonny. A few parts :) Feedback loved as always!**

He can't sleep. Nothing new there. He hasn't slept properly in over six months, and now it is too late to break the habit. It is 3am and he is wide awake, standing in the kitchen brewing coffee while his wife sits on the sofa, staring into space. She can't sleep either. Months of being woken seven or eight times throughout the night have taken their toll and now that they can sleep as much as they like, neither of them wants to.

'Do you want a coffee?' he asks. It feels wrong to break the silence, almost disrespectful, and he isn't surprised when she doesn't answer. She hasn't spoken properly in over a week now. Not since the night in the hospital when her howls of grief had subsided enough for her to ask, belatedly, whether he was okay. He wasn't, he couldn't ever imagine being okay again, but he'd lied because she had enough to contend with without worrying about him.

'Mmm' she mumbles, as much agreement as he is likely to get out of her, so he pours two mugs of the strongest coffee that he can manage and takes them through. He sits on the sofa beside her, and follows her gaze to the blank spot on the wall that she has been staring at for well over an hour now, but it is no good. Try as he might, he simply cannot see what she is looking at.

'We should probably try and get some rest' he tells her, because despite the fact that they are in hell, one of them has to be sensible and it isn't going to be her. Usually it is – for the past nine months, in fact, she has been the one to keep him from going completely off the rails – but now that she has totally unravelled he needs to step up to the plate. 'Come to bed?'

'I can't' she replies, the first words that she has spoken in what feels like days. Her voice cracks over the word can't, and he understands what she means. The bedroom is full of memories. The cot is still there, and the changing mat, and dozens of toys, bottles and other paraphernalia. He had offered to clear everything into the loft, but a single glare from her had told him in no uncertain terms that it was the wrong thing to do. She isn't ready to get rid of those things, but she can't bear to look at them either.

'Fine. Why don't I get the sofa bed out? We can sleep here' he suggests, and to his surprise she stands up, walks to the corner and allows him to fumble with the complicated combination of springs and catches until eventually a flimsy mattress creaks out of the sofa. He doesn't bother to find a duvet or pillows, instead throwing on a couple of scatter cushions and the throw that she likes to put over herself when it's cold. It's rudimentary and untidy, but it will do and he crashes down onto it, suddenly more exhausted than he's ever been. She curls up next to him, resting her head on his chest with her eyes closed. She looks peaceful, but she is a mass of jutting limbs and taut muscles and he can tell just how far from relaxed she is. He doesn't care. The fact that she is here beside him is a massive improvement on pushing him away, and in a vain attempt to soothe her he puts his arms around her and rubs her back gently, wishing that he could rub her pain away.

**ooooo**

When he wakes up after a restless couple of hours sleep she is lying on her back, staring at the ceiling with glazed over eyes. She is still ashen, her eyes still rimmed with red. Sleep has done nothing except make him alert enough to appreciate just what a poor state she is in.

'I can't do this' it comes out in a whisper, so quiet that for a moment he thinks that he is still asleep. It is only when she rolls her head to the side to look at him, waiting for a reaction, that he realises that she really has spoken and is expecting him to reply.

'Do what?' he asks, clarifying because he has known her for long enough to know that if she means one thing and he replies to another then it is a recipe for disaster. He cannot deal with a misunderstanding. Not today, of all days.

'This. Any of it' she flails her left hand around in a weak gesture that tells him absolutely nothing. 'I don't know how'

'How?' he scratches his head, still none the wiser as to what exactly she is talking about. Even when he was firing on all four cylinders she was impossible to decipher. Now, stuck in a fog of grief with six months of hell behind him and an interminable stretch in front, he doesn't stand a chance. 'Is it today that you're worried about? The funeral?' he adds, stumbling over the word funeral. So far the funeral is something that he has tried hard not to think about. Purely as a way of staying sane he had allowed Mo and Sacha to take over the arrangements for the funeral. All that he has to do is to turn up, but right now that seems like a massive mountain that he cannot even begin to climb.

'Yes. And everything else'

'Everything else?'

'Yes' she replies, but she doesn't elaborate. She rolls out of bed, rubs the sleep from her eyes and runs her hands through her knotty hair. She hasn't been to a hairdresser in six months and the once sleek, straight locks are dull and matted at the ends. She looks a wreck, which under the circumstances is understandable. 'I'm going to take a shower'

'Fine' he agrees, watching as she goes into the downstairs bathroom, the one that they never used until the bedroom became a no fly zone that prevents them from getting to the en suite. He listens as she turns on the shower, and then he pretends not to hear her cry.

**ooooo**

She doesn't say another word until they arrive at the crematorium. She is dressed in a black suit that hangs off her, because even though it is a size six, in the strain of the last six months she has lost even more weight and she is no longer skinny, she is borderline skeletal. He has managed to find a half decent pair of smart trousers and a white shirt, and a black tie borrowed from Elliot, but he feels ridiculous. He doesn't do suits and ties, never has done. Even on their wedding day he had worn jeans and converse because a rush job in a registry office during an hour-long break from the hospital had given him little alternative. They arrive in his clapped out Golf because they had both agreed that neither of them could face funeral cars or even taxis. They want to get this over with the minimum of fuss, and that is why it is just them, Mo and Sacha. Even having the other two there is against their better judgement but Mo and Sacha have been good friends to them in the last few months. The best.

**ooooo**

The service is over surprisingly quickly. There is precious little to say about a life that lasted less than half a year, and neither he nor Jac wants the fuss, so it lasts less than fifteen minutes. It is still one of the worst fifteen minutes of his life. Burying both his parents and his younger sister when he was seventeen had been painful, but it was nothing compared to this. The only saving grace is Jac's hand in his, gripping it tightly, her nails digging into his palm. For the first time in a long time he feels needed by her, and that gives him some kind of strength.

'So, what now?' she asks as they step back out into the watery June sunlight that spills through the trees. It has been the wettest June on record, which has suited his mood down to the ground, but today it is dry and bright. It feels like an insult.

'Now?' he looks at her and blinks, momentarily bemused by the question because until this second he hadn't even considered what comes next. The prospect of the funeral had been horrendous enough that until now he couldn't have imagined a time after it.

'I might go to work. There is paperwork and…'

'Work?' he echoes. It feels as though he is in some kind of parallel universe. One where they bury their daughter and his wife responds by deciding that she needs to be back at the hospital where she hasn't really worked in six months. 'I don't think… I mean, you're still on leave'

'I'm sure Elliot will find me something. I want to be busy' she replies, pulling her hair back into a scrappy bun and taking his car keys out of his hand. 'Can I take the car?'

'Yeah' numbly he hands her the keys. He doesn't know what to do for the best, but if she thinks that working will help then he isn't about to stop her. Right now she needs to do whatever will get her through, just like he does. 'Will you be late?'

'I don't know. Why don't you go for a drink with Mo?' she asks. A drink with Mo. Normality that he is far from ready to contemplate.

'I'll probably just head home' he replies, standing stock still as she reaches up and brushes a kiss onto his cheek. It is brief and perfunctory, but it is also the first sign of affection that she has shown him in a long while and it lifts his spirits. And then, with barely a glance back, she is gone. She climbs into his car and pulls away leaving him standing in the car park, staring at the space where she and the car had been. His legs buckle beneath him. It is the first time that he has been truly alone in weeks, months even, and he doesn't know what to do. It is only when he feels the arms around him, catching him before he crumples to the ground, that he realises that he is not alone. Sacha has gone but Mo is still there, her arms around him, holding him tightly.

'Come on, lovely' she murmurs in his ear, rocking him from side to side the way that she rocks her nieces and nephews when they fall over and cry. 'Let's take you home' she adds, leading him to the car. Home. It is a fine theory but home for him is where his wife and child are. With his daughter gone and his wife at work, he doesn't really have a home anymore.


End file.
